As I lay down on my blankets on the floor, she takes a seat.
"I just went to Torah classes," she said. "I learned that we never know how profound a mitzvah can be."
I pat a spot next to me.
"No," she says. "I just came back from a Torah class. I'm not doing that with you anymore. We're just friends.
"We sometimes think, 'What's the big deal with foregoing some pleasure?' But every mitzvah profoundly affects us and the universe. Every mitzvah helps heal the shattered vessels."
We toss the football back and forth until it falls between us.
She gets up, picks up the football, looks at me, and reluctantly sits beside me.
"I'm only sitting," she says. "So I don't have to yell across the room."
I rub her back.
She sighs.
"I want to play with you," she says, "but first I need to cover that."
She takes a towel but it is too heavy to hang over my Jerusalem poster.
"Don't worry about it," I say. "That's stupid."
"No, I can't look at that if I'm going to be naughty."
I throw her a sheet. She drapes it over the tacks and covers the poster.
Every mitzvah is a big mitzvah.
